Reminiscence
by TereseLucy384
Summary: A sneak peak into the past lives of our favorite castaways. Each of them has certain memories that stand out in their life - some sweet and some sad.
1. Sundays with Ginger

**SUNDAYS**

**May 5, 1946**

Little Ginger Grant stood in the foyer at St. Mary Michael's Cathedral. Her white patent leather shoes were highly polished, and her small lacey veil was set perfectly atop her red hair. She was standing in line, alphabetically, with the rest of her First Communion Class. Seamus Fitzpatrick stood in front of her, fidgeting and picking his nose.

Peggy O'Malley was standing a few spots behind Ginger, crying softly. Ginger turned around and asked "What's wrong, Peggy?"

"Oh Ginger, my stomach hurts. I feel sick."

Ginger got out of line and went to the nearby restroom. She got a damp paper towel and brought it back to Peggy. "Here, put this on your forehead. It will feel cool."

Sister Margaret came around the corner, shushing the children and straightening the line. She spied Ginger out of line, but quickly realized that she was helping Peggy, who had a tendency to get sick to her stomach. Sister Margaret smiled at Ginger and motioned for her to get back in line, and she took Peggy over to a bench to sit down.

Then the organ music started, and the children marched by two's up the center aisle of the cathedral. Ginger walked proudly, with her hands clasped in front of her. On the eastern side of the church, the sun was shining through the stained glass windows brilliantly. The colors were reflected off the little white suits and dresses up and down the line. The effect was beautiful. Ginger smiled and felt like she was walking in the middle of a rainbow.

**August 19, 1951**

13 year-old Ginger Grant came flying through the front door, her long red hair flowing behind her. She had tears in her eyes, and she was furious.

Frankie Jenkins, the boy next door, called after her. "Ginger, come back. I was just kidding. I didn't mean it."

She whipped around to the open door and yelled out, "I'm never talking to you again, Frankie Jenkins. You just . . . just . . . aaagghhhhhhh", and she slammed the door with as much strength as she could muster.

She ran up the stairs, sounding like a thundering herd, and threw herself on her bed, sobbing. A minute later, her mother came in and calmly sat at the foot of her bed. "What did Frankie do this time?" she asked, unable to keep the small smile from escaping.

Ginger sat up and glared at her mother. "He called me Howdy Doody! _Howdy . . . DOODY_! Just because I have red hair, doesn't mean I look like a stupid puppet – and a boy puppet at that," she huffed as she folded her arms across her chest.

"Now Ginger, you know you're a lot prettier than Howdy Doody," her mother said, soothingly. "But, you do both have a flair for dramatics."

Although Ginger was trying hard to maintain her fury, she couldn't help the small giggle that escaped. She crawled across the bed, down to her mother, and tried to squeeze her gangly frame onto her mother's lap, making them both laugh.

They looked towards the window as a sudden rainstorm drizzled across the glass. It was one of those quick-passing summer rains where the sun still shines bright.

"Look, Ginnie," said her mother, pointing towards the window. "There's a rainbow."

Ginger scooted over to the window, and sat and watched the sprinkles. The colors of the rainbow were brilliant. Then, the rain stopped just as suddenly as it started. Ginger looked out at the front of the house, and saw Frankie and the other kids riding their bikes through the puddles. After a quick kiss on her mother's cheek, she bounded down the stairs and back out the front door.

As she rode her bike through the biggest puddle, she watched the stained-glass colors of the rainbow's reflection ripple across the surface.

**March 14, 1954**

The Grant family was piling out of the car after church services. Francine looked up at the window on the corner of the house, and saw her daughter, Ginger, peeking through the curtain. Ginger had been complaining of severe cramps that morning and begged off mass.

Francine entered the house and walked up the stairs towards Ginger's room. Knocking on the door softly, she called, "Ginnie, how are you feeling? Do you feel like dinner?"

The door opened, and Ginger stood there, pouting. "No, Mother, I don't want dinner, thank you. Maybe, I'll be down a little later to eat something."

Now Francine _was_ concerned. Though she was tall and thin, Ginger didn't miss many meals. As she started to walk down the stairs to fix dinner for the rest of the family, she heard a crash in Ginger's room. Running back, she saw that Ginger had fallen, knocking over her Tiffany lamp, breaking the stained glass lampshade. She was now lying on the floor, amid the broken glass, clutching her stomach.

Calling for her husband, Thomas to come help, Francine brushed the glass away from Ginger. Her son, young Tommy, was hovering in the hallway. Thomas ran in, and the two of them carried Ginger down the stairs to the car.

"Tommy," yelled Francine, "we're taking her to the hospital. Uncle David is on his way over for dinner. Please wait here for him and have him drive you to meet us."

"Okay, Mom," he answered with a worried expression. "We'll get there as soon as we can." He watched his parents pull out of the driveway rapidly, and take off down the road for the hospital.

After they left, Tommy went up to Ginger's room. He knelt on the floor and picked up the stained glass pieces. _It didn't look too bad_, he thought. _I can fix this_.

Hours later, Ginger Grant lay in the hospital bed, slowly working her eyes open. She had been taken in for an emergency appendectomy. She was groggy from the medication, and her eyes were so heavy. She could hear the soft murmur of voices nearby. As she finally worked her eyes open, she could see a rainbow of colors across her pillow. As she focused, she could see that the colors were coming from her beloved Tiffany lamp. She thought she had broken it. What was it doing here?

"I broke it." She whispered.

"Francine, she's waking up," Ginger heard her father say. Suddenly, her mother was right there, near her.

"What, Ginger? What did you say, Dear?" her mother was asking.

"I broke my lamp," she said again, with a furrowed brow. "I heard it break."

Suddenly, Tommy stepped forward. "I glued it back together, Gin," he said with a shy smile. "I brought it to you to cheer you up. I know it's your favorite."

Ever since Ginger was a small girl, the sight of light shining through stained glass has brought her a joyful sense of peace, though she couldn't explain why. She smiled at her little brother, and mouthed the words "thank you" to him.

**April 3, 1966**

Sunday mornings on the island were special to Ginger Grant, at least, ever since Gilligan had shown her the little mango grove near the waterfall. If you walk through the grove in the early morning sun, the rays peeked through the canopy of trees with a rainbow of colors. It reminded Ginger of stained glass windows. The other castaways usually steered clear of the area on Sunday mornings, as that was a contemplative time for her.

This particular Sunday morning, she thought that she spied a flash of red off and on throughout her walk. Was Gilligan following her? Or ahead of her?

When she arrived at the mango grove, though, a spectacular sight met her eyes. There were dozens of hanging decorations in the trees. Someone had taken little pieces of colored sea glass and wrapped them with wires, dangling them from the branches. The effect was stunning and brought tears to her eyes. It was like walking through a kaleidoscope.

She spied the red again, up ahead, and laughed. "I see you, Gilligan. Come out, come out, wherever you are."

Gilligan stuck his head around a tree, with a huge grin. "Happy Birthday, Ginger," he called out, giggling.

"How did you know? I didn't tell anyone." She exclaimed.

"Remember when I was helping you and MaryAnn clean your hut a few months ago?" he asked. Well, your driver's license fell out of your little purse and I saw the date. I marked it down so I wouldn't forget," he said proudly.

"But how did you know that I loved stained glass?" she asked, winking and flirting with him, sliding her hands up his chest.

"That was a lucky guess," he said with a grin. "I've been collecting it for a while now and wanted to make something pretty. I know how you like the way the sun shines through the trees and flowers, so I figured you'd like this, too."

"This is one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. Thank you, Gilligan," and she topped it off with a kiss on the tip of his nose.

In an uncharacteristic move, Gilligan refrained from his usual ducking away. He accepted the kiss with a smile and a blush, then took off through the jungle, in his typical rapid fashion.


	2. Professor Takes on Monday

**MONDAYS**

**November 9, 1942**

This particular Monday morning found young Roy Hinkley, age 10, sitting in the back of a shuttle for the Collegiate School For Boys, in up-state New York. Dressed in pleated khaki's with a white button-up shirt, he sat stiffly, with his hands on his knees, only moving once - to pull up his sock. He had been accepted into an advanced-studies program. This was a prep school, and it would be Roy's first time staying away from home.

While he was feeling a bit anxious about what this new adventure would bring, he was looking forward to the academic challenge. Life in the public school system had not been kind to him. The schoolwork was elementary and far below his capabilities, and the other students couldn't relate to him. Although, in all honesty, he was quite used to being without friends.

The shuttle had arrived at the school dorms, and he disembarked. There was a distinguished-looking man, with a severe face, waiting on the bottom step.

"Mr. Hinkley, I presume. I am Mr. Wallace," he said with a slight bow. "Welcome to Fitzwilley Hall." Roy struggled with his suitcase as he followed Mr. Wallace up the stairs and through the hallways. It was an old building, and the halls were dark and sinister.

They passed dorm-rooms, and older boys were in and out of the rooms and running down the halls. As he passed one group of high-school aged boys, one of them looked down at Roy, then at Mr. Wallace and asked "Is this the new Professor?" causing the other boys to break up laughing.

Roy scowled a bit, but held his head high. He didn't realize at that moment that the name would stick, and he would be referred to as "Professor" for many years to come.

**June 5, 1948 **

Roy Hinkley was running across the grass in front of Cohegan Hall. Graduation was only a week away, and there was so much to do. He heard his name being called and looked back over his shoulder. It was his mother, Anna Hinkley, approaching him quickly.

"Mom," he said, surprised. "I thought you and Dad weren't coming until the weekend." He held out his hands to take hers, and immediately noticed that her hands were shaking. Looking closer, he realized that she was holding back tears. He looked around, with a sudden cold knot in his stomach.

"Where's Dad?" he asked. "Mom, where's Dad?"

Anna Hinkley let out a sob. "Oh, Roy. He wanted to be here. He is so proud – so _very_ proud of you. To think, graduating two years early."

Roy led his mother to a small bench under a large oak tree on the campus. Still holding her hands, he begged her. "Tell me what happened."

She took a deep breath. "He's in the hospital. He's at Mercy General in Intensive Care. He . . . he had a seizure. Now, well . . . he's in a coma."

"When did this happen?" he asked, his voice quivering.

"Just last night. I knew you had your last final this morning. I didn't want to tell you until you were finished." She reached her hand up and brushed her fingers through his wavy hair. "He's going to be okay, Roy. He'll come out of this."

"But he won't be at graduation next Monday," he said. "Will . . . will you be there?" He suddenly looked like a lost little boy. For all his brilliance and accomplishments, Anna constantly had to remind herself how young he really was.

* * *

For the rest of the week, Roy and his mother were back and forth between campus and Mercy General. There had been no change in Wallace Hinkley's condition.

When the morning dawned on graduation day, Roy took a bus to the hospital. He wanted to sit with his father for an hour or so before getting ready for the proceedings. When he entered the room, his mother was not yet there. He pulled a chair up close to the bed and held his father's hand.

As always, words failed him. He could answer almost any question his teachers threw at him. He could beat anyone on his campus at chess blindfolded. Why could he not think of anything to say to his father, who lay here in a coma. The doctors had told Roy and Anna to talk to him, tell him about their days, but whenever Roy got to this point, he just sat there and struggled to find words.

Still holding his father's hand, he turned and looked out the window. Staring at the cumulus clouds drifting slowly across the bright blue sky, he started talking in a soft whisper.

"I got my scholarship package from UCLA yesterday, Dad." He blinked back the tears. "They gave me a full scholarship into their botany program. It's . . . It's a really good program. I want to go, but it's going to be hard to leave her. You have to be here. You can't leave her, too." He let go of his father's hand and, with his head hanging low, brushed a tear away.

When he dropped his hand back to the bed, he felt something brush his fingers. He slowly looked up. Wallace Hinkley was looking at him with a tired smile on his pale face. They clasped hands.

"Roy," his father said in a scratchy, raspy voice. "I'm so proud of you. I'm not going anywhere. I love you, son."

**March 9, 1959**

In a small science lab in the bowels of St. Augustus High School, Professor Roy Hinkley sat on a rickety stool, wearing a white lab coat, with a worn notebook on his knee, as he carefully measured the essence of a mansilea minuta, a species of fern that held great promise for medicinal purposes.

As he meticulously extracted the essence with a syringe, his left hand reached out and grasped a nearby petri dish. The glow of the lamp above his head flickered twice. He glanced up in annoyance for a brief moment before returning his attention to his experiment. He added the essence to the chemicals in the petri dish and carefully monitored the reaction. With his brow furrowed in concentration, he scribbled notes into the worn notebook.

In the middle of his note-taking, the light flickered again and then went out. Emitting a low groan, he paused, pen in mid-air, to see if the lights would come back on. He heard the door to the lab open.

"Professor? Professor Hinkley, are you in here?" a hushed voice whispered.

"Yes, George, I'm back here by my lab table," he answered with a slight amount of annoyance. It was only at that moment that he even noticed the fierce wind blowing outside and the sleety rain hitting the windows.

George Cumberland, a colleague of Roy's at St. Augustus High School, came walking back carrying a lit candle. He set the candle down on the table and the two men looked at each other in the soft glow.

"Rachel is looking for you," George said softly. "She's pretty upset. Did you have plans for tonight?"

"Well, yes, but not until 5:30," Roy said, indignantly.

George sighed. "Professor, it's 6:45. This is the third time this month, you've stood her up."

Roy sighed. At that moment, the lights crackled and came back on . . . just in time for Rachel Hammond to come careening into the lab much like the storming tempest outside. She glared at Roy and then flicked her eyes to George.

George took the hint and started backing away. "I'll talk to you later, Professor Hinkley, about that . . . uh . . . fern extract. Leave a copy of your lab report in my mailbox." At that, he walked out of the lab and entered the small kitchenette across the hall.

Roy glanced at Rachel, her wet skirt clinging to her legs and her dark hair plastered to her head. He sighed again and set his notebook and pen down, glancing regretfully at the concoction still lightly fizzing in the petri dish. "I'm sorry about dinner, Rachel, really I am. But the timing on this experiment is critical."

"Oh, you cannot be serious. Professor . . . Roy, I have tried to accept your eccentric behavior. I find you brilliant and fascinating, but this - this has got to stop. If you want any sort of relationship with me . . . with anybody . . . you have got to meet me half way." She paced back and forth across the room.

Roy took the opportunity when her back was turned to sneak a peek at the petri dish and checked his stopwatch. He lowered his stopwatch – too late. She turned and caught him.

He saw the expression on her face. "This is critical, Rachel. The medicinal values in this fern can greatly improve the treatment for epilepsy. It can help stop seizures . . . the very seizure that put my father in a coma." He dropped the stopwatch on the lab table and approached her. "Surely, you realize the significance of this experiment."

"I do, Roy. I do," she said sadly. "And sadly, I realize that this experiment and its results are more important to you at this time than I am."

He started to protest, weakly. "But Rachel, why should I have to choose between you and science?"

"I'm too selfish, Roy. I can't handle coming second to your experiments. I'm sorry, but I can't keep sitting around waiting for you." She walked out of the lab, her heels clicking sharply on the floor as she walked slowly down the hall.

Roy stood by his table listening to her footsteps. He heard her pause partway down the hall and knew that she was waiting for him to come after her. After a moment, her footsteps resumed a little more quickly.

He turned back to his table and picked up the petri dish. All was not lost; there was still time to record the reaction to the chemicals. Within minutes, his mind was lost as he resumed his scribbling into the notebook. He did not notice as George Cumberland stood in the doorway of the lab, shaking his head sadly.

**March 16, 1964**

Professor Roy Hinkley sat at a rickety table in the middle of his hut, scribbling notes into a worn notebook on his knees. His eyes flickered to the test tubes lined up in a small bamboo rack as he monitored the reactions to the chemicals. Outside the hut, storm clouds were rolling in, causing his hut to darken. He sighed and got some candles out, placing them strategically around the table.

"Professor, are you coming out for dinner?" Ginger asked as she poked her head through his doorway.

It took a moment for him to answer. "Not just yet, Ginger," he said without looking up. "I must record these reactions immediately. The timing is critical."

He was totally absorbed in his experiment and did not notice that Ginger watched him from the doorway for a few more minutes. About ten minutes later, he looked up in surprise as Ginger came back in and set a plate of food on the table, next to his elbow. She smiled at him.

"You have to eat, Professor. I know what you're doing is important, but so is your health." At that, she also placed a coconut-shell cup of water by his plate. "Now don't go mixing this up with your chemicals." She quipped with a wink as she poked the tip of his nose.

Professor looked at her and blinked his eyes.

A half hour later, Ginger came back in to collect his dishes. Professor had just finished mixing the components for the next phase of his experiment. He was able to sit back for a few moments, while he waited for the mixture to reach the correct temperature.

"Thank you for bringing me dinner, Ginger," he said softly. "That was very kind of you."

She blushed and smiled. Setting the dishes aside, she sat next to his table and took in all that was going on. "Tell me about this one," she demanded. "What are you cooking up?"

Professor immediately became animated. "Well, after Gilligan's injuries last week between his run-in with the wasp nest . . . and then falling down the steep ravine and gouging a chunk out of his leg, I realized that we need an antiseptic on this island to prevent infections. There are several species of fern here that, luckily, will provide us with what we need."

Ginger crinkled her nose. "Do you mean that you can take some of the plants on this island and make medicine?"

"Yes," he said nodding. "That is precisely what I mean."

"Professor," she purred. "You are not only good-looking, but brilliant, too." She reached up and tickled her fingers through his hair. Then getting a little more serious, she asked, "What can I do to help?"

After a momentary flustering, he smiled. "Really? You want to help?" he asked.

"Of course, Professor. This is important. We count on you for so much. If you need me to run for you to get meals, I'll do it. If you need someone to hold things for you and hand them to you, you can count on me."

He looked at her for a moment, scrutinizing her expression to see how serious she was. When he realized that she really meant it, he smiled again, and said, "Ginger, please . . . call me Roy."


	3. Some Very Lovey Tuesdays

**TUESDAYS **

**February 13, 1928**

Eunice Wentworth skipped down the hallway of her dorm building. Classes were over for the day, her homework was done, and . . . it was her 13th birthday. She knew that she was having a big party at her home on Saturday, but today just had a special feel to it.

"Good afternoon, Eunice," said Liza Pomerleau. Liza was a senior at the Ely School for Girls, and served as the Resident Assistant for Eunice's floor. She was walking down the hall, carrying a laundry basket.

"A little birdie told me that it's your birthday," Liza said, smiling. "I hope it has been a wonderful day for you."

"Thank you, Liza," Eunice answered sweetly. "I've had such a lovely day." She was dressed in the Ely uniform, a hunter green woolen skirt, white blouse and a gold blazer. Her hair was carefully curled, and her cheeks were rosy from crossing the campus on this crisp February afternoon.

Opening the door to her room, she stepped in.

She heard a familiar voice say, "Happy Birthday, Little Darling. Surprise!"

Eunice squealed and launched herself into her father's arms.

Randolph Wentworth laughed and swung her around the room. "What do you say we play hookie from the dining hall and go eat at Murphy's tonight?"

"Oh Daddy, I'm so happy to see you. Yes, let's. Let's go to Murphy's," Eunice answered.

Two hours later, as the waiter cleared away the last remnants of their dinner, Eunice sighed happily.

"Oh Daddy, thank you for coming to surprise me. That was the best dinner ever. I can't wait to go tell the girls all that I ate. The grilled salmon was to die for, and the crème brulee for dessert . . . oh, I just can't even say how good it all was." Her hands were clasped under her chin and her face was beaming.

She watched as her father chuckled. Then he reached into the pocket of his overcoat. He pulled out a delicate little package wrapped in sparkly silver paper.

"I came for more than dinner," he said with a sly smile. "You don't think I'd show up here without a birthday present, do you?" He handed her the little package.

Eunice was shocked. "Oh, Daddy, I didn't think . . . really? For me?" she squealed. Then she took a deep breath and picked up the package. She couldn't make up her mind if she should delicately peel the paper off in a proper lady-like fashion . . . or follow her heart and rip it off with the enthusiasm she was feeling inside.

She tried as hard as she could to maintain a lady-like demeanor and peel the wrap off slowly. She then found herself holding a little emerald green velvet jewelry box. She gasped as she looked at her father.

"Go ahead – open it," he encouraged.

She slowly opened the hinged top and inside, was the most delicate, perfect diamond earrings she had ever seen.

"I thought 13 was a fine age for your first pair of diamonds. Nothing but the best for my little girl," he said, as he looked at her with love.

Eunice Wentworth, with tears in her eyes, once again launched herself at her father, hugging his neck tightly.

He laughed his booming laugh and there, in the middle of the restaurant, he hugged his little girl and twirled her around the room.

**November 19, 1935**

Eunice and her best friend, Valerie Pembroke, were in Cambridge taking a cab to the Harvard campus. Valerie had invited Eunice to come spend a week with her, while she was visiting her cousin Lance. If truth be told, Valerie had hoped that when Eunice and Lance met, sparks would fly.

When they had arrived on Sunday evening, Lance had met them at the hotel restaurant. He certainly seemed interested in Valerie's friend, but Eunice did not seem to have the same stars in her eyes as Lance did. So now the plan was to come to the stables at the far end of the campus and see Lance in action on his polo pony. He rode a chestnut thoroughbred, who was lightening quick and could turn on a dime, and Lance fancied himself quite a player.

When the cab let the young ladies off at the edge of the field, they marveled at the speed and precision of the polo team, who were in the middle of a ferocious scrimmage. Recognizing Slick, Lance's horse, Valerie pointed him out. They watched him for a few minutes, but soon enough, Eunice got caught up in the excitement of the match and watched the other players, too.

There was a young man riding a magnificent blue roan that Eunice couldn't keep her eyes off of. It wasn't his face or how handsome he was . . . it was more his presence and confidence. He was clearly dominating on the field.

When the team's coach blew the whistle, the horsemen all brought their steeds to a circle around him. The ladies watched from a distance as they dismounted and laughed among themselves. Some boys from the stables came to collect the horses, and Lance approached the ladies.

"Come on, girls," he called out. "Come divot stamping with us."

Eunice glanced at Valerie with a shrug. "What's divot stamping?" she asked.

Valerie laughed and pulled her up. "Come on. It's fun. We run around the field and stamp the divots back into the ground. It fills in the little holes that the horses made while running and turning."

The players were all laughing and roughhousing while they stomped and stamped their feet. As the girls got closer, though, they quieted down.

After a few moments, the handsome young man who rode the blue roan worked his way over to them. He glanced at Eunice with a debonair smile and a wink. She lowered her eyes demurely.

"Lance," he said, in a deep voice. "You are going to introduce us to these lovely ladies, aren't you. You can't be so crass as to keep them all to yourself."

Lance grimaced. "Ladies," he said. "This is my teammate, Thurston Howell, III. Thurston, this is my cousin, Valerie Pembroke, and her friend, Eunice Wentworth." When he said Eunice's name, he put his hand gently on her arm, as if to lay claim.

Thurston smiled and bowed slightly to Valerie. "Ms. Pembroke, I do hope you'll forgive me when I steal Ms. Wentworth away for dinner tonight." As he finished speaking, he turned his gaze to Eunice, who was blushing furiously.

As her eyes met his, sparks flew.

**December 23, 1941**

"Lovey, Dear," said Thurston Howell, III. "Would you like some more wine?"

"Yes, thank you, Darling," she answered as she gratefully held her glass out to him. She was quite pleased that Thurston was aware of her distress; that fact alone made it bearable.

They were attending their Tuesday night ritual of dinner with Thurston's parents, Thurston Howell, II and Amelia Howell. Lovey Howell was well aware that she was far from her mother-in-law's favorite person. However, that never stopped her from trying.

"Amelia, your meal is flawless, as usual," she complimented, knowing full well that Amelia hadn't prepared a dish by herself in decades. "What ever did you do to the prime rib to bring out such a delectable flavor?" she asked, thinking to herself, "_what ever did Pierre do?"_

"Oh, thank you, Eunice," Amelia said, with a fake tinkling laugh. "Aren't you a sweet thing. But of course, you know that I can't give out all my secrets. Would you care for some more? You're looking a bit peaked."

"Oh, dear me, no," said Lovey, shaking her head gently. "Thank you, but I am quite satisfied." She took a sip of her wine, wishing more than anything that she was knocking back a shot of whiskey instead. She glanced at Amelia over the rim of her wine glass and gave her a saccharine-induced smile.

Looking over at Thurston, her rock, he gave her a smile and a wink as he cut into his prime rib. She smiled back, genuinely, knowing that he adored her.

Amelia scrutinized every move they made. "Thurston," she said to her husband at the far end of the table. "Doesn't Eunice look rather peaked tonight?"

Thurston, II glanced at Eunice, then at his wife. "She looks fine to me, Amelia," he answered gruffly.

"Well, I think you look peaked," she continued, shaking her head and pursing her lips. "You run yourself ragged with all your committees and meetings and volunteering all over town. That's probably why you haven't conceived yet."

There it was. Lovey had been waiting for it. She shot Thurston an apologetic smile. He was frowning at his mother.

"It's a shame. I had hoped to be a grandmother for Christmas this year," Amelia continued, either oblivious to their discomfort or uncaring. "The Nelsons have two grandchildren already. One would think you aren't trying."

"Really, Mother," Thurston interrupted. "It'll happen when it happens. Lovey and I are happy as can be. Isn't that what you really want for us?"

"Why, of course, Darling," she answered, giving her son that same fake tinkling laugh. "Of course, I want you to be happy. I just think you'd be happier if she'd give you a son, that's all."

Later that evening, as Lovey sat at her vanity, taking off her jewelry and brushing out her golden curls, she watched Thurston through her mirror. A stray tear trickled down her cheek.

"I _am_ sorry, Thurston," she whispered.

"Sorry for what?" he asked with wide eyes. "What could you possibly have to be sorry for? You are the most marvelous wife a man could ask for."

He came over and put his hands on her shoulders and bent down to kiss the top of her head, breathing in the slightly tropical scent of her perfume.

She stood up and wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face into his neck. "I know that you want a baby. I'm trying. I really am," she cried.

Thurston Howell, III stepped back and put his hands on her cheeks and kissed her nose. "YOU are all that I need to be happy," he said softly. Then he placed his cheek against hers, put one hand on her waist and took her other hand. Humming a little waltz, he glided with her around the bedroom until she was laughing.

Throwing her arms around his neck, she reached up and kissed him. "I love you, my darling," she said. Then laying her head on his shoulder, she whispered again, "I love you."

Hours later, when he lay beside her, snoring rather loudly, she sat up, perched on her pillows. She looked down at him with a loving smile, then stared at the moon outside their window. With her hands folded on her stomach, she said a hopeful prayer that the love they had just made would give her husband the baby he so wanted.

**February 9, 1965**

Eunice May Wentworth Howell, also known as Lovey Howell, sat quietly on a little bench that was placed carefully at the edge of the lagoon. The small waterfall on the other side of the lagoon splashed gently, and a gentle breeze carried the scents of the lovely flowers that decorated the jungle.

By now, she knew that Thurston had hired Gilligan to collect feathers to make a new down pillow for her 50th birthday, which was coming up in just a few days. Sadly, the majority of feathers had been destroyed in the "Mars Camera Incident", as it was now known as.

She smiled to herself to think of poor Gilligan, covered in feathers, and the rest of them chasing him all around the hut and jungle. That sweet, awkward boy had a very special spot in her heart.

She sighed as her mind drifted to MaryAnn Summers. She was such a dear, young girl . . . always thinking of others. She reminded Lovey of herself at a young age, before she met Thurston . . . back when she thought that she'd never get old.

She thought back over the years . . . meeting Thurston, their whirlwind romance and eloping, the years of snide comments from Thurston's mother over Lovey's inability to conceive . . . knowing how badly Thurston had wanted a son to carry on the Howell name . . .

Was her life over? Was it wasted?

Later that evening, as the others sat around the campfire, Lovey entered her hut and sat at the edge of the bed. She was feeling so unsettled. She heard the door open and looked up.

MaryAnn came in with two coconut mugs.

"I brought you some cocoa, Mrs. Howell," she said sweetly. "It seems a little chilly tonight, and I thought you might enjoy a treat."

"Why, thank you, you dear, sweet girl," Lovey said with a smile. She reached out and took the mug from MaryAnn. Taking a sip, she smiled again. "That's good," she said.

"Mrs. Howell," MaryAnn said. "If you don't mind my saying, you seem a little out of sorts tonight. Is everything all right? Can I help?"

Lovey Howell looked at the young farm girl. This girl had become as special to her as Gilligan was. Lovey realized how much she had come to love these two young people, and that they were at just the age that her own imagined children would have been. She remembered back over the past year, how many times MaryAnn, and even Gilligan, had come to her for advice on life and love. _Maybe she and Thurston hadn't had their own children_, she thought, _but I have two darling surrogate children right here with me._

Suddenly, all her anxiety was gone, and what replaced it was a swelling of her heart, so full of love.

Placing her hand on MaryAnn's cheek, she patted it. "You just did," she said with love. She reached up and kissed MaryAnn's cheek.

"Now," she said slyly. Opening Thurston's chest at the end of his bed and taking out a small flask, and winking at MaryAnn, she said, "Let's see what we can do to warm this up a little more."


	4. Wednesdays With the Wolf of Wall Street

**WEDNESDAYS **

**June 14 , 1922**

"Hooray, Gramps is here. Mom, Dad, Gramps is here!" shouted young Thurston Howell, III. He leaned his stomach over the top of the bannister, lifted his feet slightly and slid all the way down to the bottom of the grand stairway.

Flying off the end of the railing, he laughed as he threw himself into his grandfather's arms.

"There's my boy. There's my favorite grandson," said the original Thurston Howell with a laugh.

"Are you really staying to visit ALL summer?" young Thurston asked with glee.

"I am," his grandfather answered. "I really am – ALL summer."

Later that evening, as the family sat in the dining room finishing the last of their dinner, Thurston the first, leaned back in his chair. "Well, young T," he said. "What would you like for your birthday this year? Anything you want – the sky's the limit."

"Oh, Father, really," squawked Amelia Howell, Thurston's mother. "Isn't that a bit . . . excessive. He's only turning ten."

"Exactly," Old Thurston answered. "My oldest grandchild is turning TEN. And I am going to get him whatever he wants."

Thurston, II looked at his son. "Well, son, if Gramps said anything, then that's a big decision to make. You'd better think it over carefully."

"I don't have to think about it," young Thurston said. "I know already what I want. I've been thinking about it for weeks." Hopping up on his knees in his chair and leaning across the table, he said, "I want a tree house."

"A tree house?" asked Amelia. "Seriously, Darling, you hate playing outside. Think about it a little more."

"No, Mother. I do. I do want a tree house. The biggest, grandest tree house in Newport – built in that giant oak on the far side of the pool."

Even his father was a bit skeptical. "Are you sure, Little Thurston? You've never even climbed that tree. In fact, aren't you a little afraid of heights?"

Young Thurston rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to go in it _myself_," he said with a huff. "It's my first real estate. I'm going to charge a rental fee for all my friends to use it. We've got to make it the best tree house they've ever seen."

Old Thurston threw his head back and laughed. "Well, isn't he just a chip off the old block," he roared. Then he slapped his hand on the table and said, "A tree house it is. Come on, lad. Are you done eating? Let's go up to your room. Grab some paper – we can get busy designing this arboreal masterpiece."

"Yippee," shouted little Thurston. He pushed his chair back and ran for stairway, yelling all the way. "My first real estate. I'm going to be rich!"

**September 12, 1928**

Thurston Howell, III, entered the room at the St. Bernadine Hospital. He had gotten the call at school this morning that his grandfather's condition had taken a drastic turn for the worst. Naturally, he rushed to be at his grandfather's side.

Walking into the room, young Thurston almost let out a sob. It was unthinkable, how far his grandfather had deteriorated in the past year. Thurston had always known him as a robust man, thick and stocky with twinkling eyes and a hearty laugh.

This thin, gasping man behind the mask couldn't possibly be his grandfather.

There were flowers and balloons and gifts all over the room, but young Thurston didn't see them. He only saw his Gramps. Approaching the bed and sitting down on the edge carefully, he took the old man's hand.

"Gramps, I'm here. It's okay, I'm here now," he whispered. He thought for a minute that his eyelids flickered and fancied that the old man returned the grip on his hand. They sat like that for over an hour.

Thurston was vaguely aware of a young nurse, who periodically came in and checked on his grandfather, wrote things on a chart and then floated out again, almost like she hadn't even been there.

Thurston felt so lost, sitting alone with his grandfather, listening to the hum of machines and the raspy gurgling sound that Gramps made as he gasped behind the mask. His eyes never opened.

Thurston heard the door open and thought that his parents were coming in. He didn't turn around.

"I'm sorry you didn't see him when he was awake this morning," said a soft voice.

Thurston spun around. It was the young nurse – the one who had been flitting in and out throughout the evening.

"My name is Nurse Marion," she said. "I sat with him for a while before your parents got here."

She walked past Thurston, over to a small table that held dozens of flowers. She pushed one of the baskets to the side and reached down into the pile, pulling out a small brown teddy bear.

"One of the nurses brought this to him yesterday," she said, smiling and hugging the bear. "Here. You should keep it." She held the bear out toward Thurston.

"What would I want with a teddy bear?" he asked in an affronted manner. "That's ridiculous."

"But he liked it," she explained. "You should have seen him smile when she set it on the bed near him. If you keep it, it will make you think of him and smile."

Thurston looked at the bear. He picked it up and held it at eye level. He felt absurd.

He started to protest once more, but caught himself looking the bear in the face again. He peered into the little button eyes. _Maybe I'll take it home and put it in the tree house_, he thought. _Fine, that's it. He can live in the tree house._

Late that night, Thurston lay in bed listening to the silence of the manor. His grandfather had passed away a few hours ago. His parents had just come to talk to him about it, but he sent them away. He reached under his blankets and pulled out the teddy bear. Looking into the bear's button eyes again, he whispered, "Teddy, will you never die and leave me? Will you always be here?"

Holding the bear with both hands, he reached his fingers up and made the bear nod. With a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sob, he curled up in his blanket and hugged the bear tight.

**August 16, 1944**

It was early Wednesday afternoon, and Thurston Howell, III was just coming back from a luncheon meeting.

"Oh, Mr. Howell," called Hazel Murphy, his secretary. "Mr. Dewey cancelled his appointment this afternoon."

Thurston paused with his hand on the door to his office. _Hmmm_, he thought. _That changes my plans for the day_. Looking out the window, he formulated a new plan.

A half-hour later with new plans in place, he walked across his office, shut off his lights and walked out, locking the door behind him.

"Ms. Murphy," he said. "I'll be out of the office for the rest of the afternoon." He passed her with a sly smile and a wink.

As the limo driver drove past Zuccotti Park, Thurston pulled down the little window and told his driver to pull over at the corner of Cedar and Trinity. As the limo rolled to a stop, Thurston lowered his window. _Just in time_, he thought with a smile. Wendell Day, a young man who worked in Norton's Gourmet Restaurant, was running down the sidewalk jostling a large picnic basket.

"Here you go, Mr. Howell, Sir," he hollered, gasping for breath. He handed the basket through the window. "Everything's there, just like you asked." Wendell put his hands on his knees as he tried to recover from his sprint.

Thurston handed him a one-hundred dollar bill out the window. "Wendell, you're right on time." Rolling up the window again, setting the basket beside him on the seat, Thurston smiled.

Rolling down the window to his driver one more time, he handed a slip of paper through.

"Luther, go to this address next," he said.

Recently, Thurston and his wife, Lovey, had received the devastating news that conception was an impossibility for them. They had been trying to have a baby for several years, with no success. After an emotionally exhausting series of tests and blood work, the doctors finally concluded that Lovey Howell was unable to conceive. She had been crying for days.

When Thurston's afternoon became unexpectedly cleared, he decided to indulge in a little pick-me-up for the love of his life.

The limo pulled up in front of a large white house in a very well-to-do neighborhood. Luther got out and opened the limo door for Thurston, who approached the house and knocked on the door. A maid answered the door and invited him in.

Less than ten minutes later, he came out again, carrying another wicker basket with a cover on it. He gently set it on the seat and got in, instructing Luther to take him home.

Upon arriving at home, Thurston asked Matilda, their maid, where his wife was and how her day had gone.

"She's in the garden, Mr. Howell," Matilda answered. "She hasn't been crying as much, but she hasn't eaten either."

As he walked toward the back of the house, Matilda watched him go, wondering what could be in the two baskets.

Peering through the glass doors into the garden, Thurston watched her for a few moments. She had her back to him and was sitting on a little bench by her favorite patch of flowers. He slipped through the doors and came up behind her.

"Which one first?" he asked, when she turned to him with an excited squeal. He held the two baskets up toward her.

"That one first," she said with a smile, though he could tell that despite what Matilda thought, she had recently been crying again.

He handed her the first basket and she opened it, pulling out a beautiful gingham blanket and spreading it on the grass near the flower garden. "Oh Thurston, what a brilliant idea. I'm so surprised to see you home so early," she said. She gasped when she saw all the fixings for a very extravagant picnic, and squealed with delight at each item she pulled out.

He was happy to see the joy enter her surprised eyes, and even happier to see the flush in her cheeks. He sat next to her and set the second basket between them.

She jumped a little when the cover popped open on its own. Laughing, she pulled back a little white blanket, only to find herself staring into a little red furry face with tiny black eyes and a perfect little black nose.

"Oh Thurston," she said, her eyes wide and a huge smile on her face. "She's positively gorgeous." She pulled the tiny poodle out of the basket and held her close.

The puppy squirmed and reached up, licking Lovey's chin. Thurston took a deep breath and sighed with relief. It was love at first sight for both of them, as he had hoped.

**November 18, 1964**

Thurston Howell, III slowly opened his eyes and stretched. He reached under his blanket and pulled out a worn, lumpy teddy bear. Holding it up and looking into the bear's eyes, Thurston sighed. Looking over at Lovey's bed, he saw that she was already up and out of the hut.

He got out of bed and crossed the hut to get dressed, glancing out the window as he did. The only soul he saw was the Professor sitting at the table. He scowled. Suddenly, he was feeling like a wolf . . . The Wolf of Wall Street, to be exact.

He emerged from the hut and approached the table, wearing a pinstriped suit and fedora. Grabbing a mango, he pulled out a small knife from his pocket and started to slice it. He sat down at the table across from the Professor and glared at him with a furrowed brow.

It took a few moments for Professor to even notice him. He had his head down and was furiously scribbling into a notebook.

Thurston cleared his throat. Professor jumped a little and looked up.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Howell," he said. "I didn't see you sit down." He put the pencil down and looked at Thurston.

Slicing another piece of mango and eating it, he sneered at Professor. Then he asked, "Have you seen Mrs. Howell this morning?"

Professor gulped. It was just two nights ago that Professor tried to help Mrs. Howell make Mr. Howell jealous. After the disconcerting news that the Reverend Buckley Norris was a fraud and the Howells' weren't legally married, one thing led to another and the couple was on the outs. But Lovey wanted her husband back and asked Professor to help make him jealous.

Although it turned out to be a huge misunderstanding and the Howell's were again married . . . happily so, Mr. Howell was still a bit shaken about the thought of seeing _his_ Lovey sitting at a dinner table in a romantic setting with the Professor.

"Uh, ummm," Professor stammered. "I think she went over to see Ginger and MaryAnn about some sewing projects.

Thurston nodded and slowly took another bite of mango. Looking back at Professor with a raised eyebrow, he asked, "So tell me . . . _Professor_. What's salicylic acid?"

"What?" asked Professor, clearly not expecting that question.

"Salicylic acid. Lovey promised to buy it for you." Another bite of mango.

Professor grinned sheepishly. "Uh, Mr. Howell, you really don't have anything to worry about."

"Of course, I don't," he answered gruffly. "The day an egghead like you could steal away my Lovey is the day the Queen Mary shows up on the west shore to take us home." Last bite of mango. "What is it? Salicylic acid?"

"Actually, it's just the scientific name for aspirin."

Thurston nodded as he took a napkin and wiped down his knife. "Salicylic acid. Aspirin?" He sat with the knife in his hand, tapping it on the table.

Professor nodded.

"Aspirin," he said again. Then he started laughing. He got up and walked back toward his hut shaking his head. "Eggheads," he muttered.

He got about halfway to his hut when he looked over toward the girls' hut. Lovey was coming out with Ginger and MaryAnn and the three of them were laughing. Thurston's heart burst with love. With a wolfish grin at the Professor, he turned and headed toward his wife.

"Good morning, Lovey, Dear," he said, holding his arms out to her.

She ran into his arms and they rubbed noses, whispering loving sentiments to each other.

He leaned down a bit and put his lips near her ear, causing her to shiver. "Tell me, Lovey. Do you need any . . . aspirin?" he asked, leaning back with a raised eyebrow and a grin.

"Oh Thurston," she said. Waving her hand at him and wrinkling her nose, she started to laugh. She linked her arm in his and patted his cheek with her other hand. "Come, Darling," she said. "Let's take a stroll."

With arms linked, and occasionally rubbing noses and stealing kisses, they happily strolled down their favorite path through the jungle.


	5. Thursday Visits on the Kansas Prairie

**THURSDAYS **

**July 27, 1950**

The summer of 1950 was a summer of firsts for little MaryAnn Summers. She lost her first tooth, rode her first two-wheeler, and she jumped off the big rock into the Great Falls River by herself for the first time. And in just one month, she would be starting first grade.

Tonight would be another first MaryAnn. Her mother was in the hospital after giving birth to a new baby brother, Nicholas, and tonight would be the first time that Mama wouldn't be there to tuck her in. It would be just MaryAnn and her father.

As they drove into town on their way to the hospital, she couldn't stop her mind from racing. _What would it be like tonight, just me and Daddy?_ she thought_. Will he read to me? Will he play a game with me? Oh my goodness! Who's going to cook dinner?_

"Daddy," she asked as they pulled into the hospital parking lot. "What will we do for dinner tonight? Who's going to cook it?" She looked at him with a very worried expression.

Frank Summers grinned down at his five-year old daughter. "I think I can manage some burgers on the grill," he said as he gave a gentle tug on one of her pigtails. "Mommy already had everything ready, so it'll be a piece of cake."

MaryAnn breathed a sigh of relief. She got out of the car, adjusted her new yellow dress and took her father's hand to go in and greet her new brother.

Later that afternoon, after MaryAnn had exhausted her mother by helping to feed Nicholas, count all his fingers and toes, and caused a bit of a mess by trying to take off his diaper, Frank decided it was time to take her home.

"Come on, Little Munchkin," he said as he swung her off the bed. "Let's give Mama and Nicky some time to eat their dinner and go to bed. They both look tired."

As they walked across the parking lot and Frank Summers buckled his daughter into the car, she asked, "Daddy, why do you call me Munchkin? What is a _munchkin, _anyway?"

"You don't know what a munchkin is?" he asked with wide eyes.

She sent her pigtails flailing with a wild shake of her head.

"Well, I think we need to stop at the library on our way home, then." He answered. "Mr. L. Frank Baum is just the man to tell you what . . . or who . . . a munchkin is."

"Who is _he_?" she asked, wrinkling her nose. "He has your name. But his other name is funny."

Frank smiled. They pulled into a parking spot in front of the library, and he helped her out of the car. Entering the library and heading to the children's section, MaryAnn held his hand and skipped alongside her father.

He looked carefully through the shelves until he finally pulled out a book. Handing it to MaryAnn, he said in a whisper, "This is a magical story . . . about a young girl with pigtails . . . who lives in Kansas."

MaryAnn's eyes grew wide. She reached up and fingered her pigtail as she whispered back, "But I live in Kansas, too."

He nodded. "I know," he said sagely. Tapping the book, he continued. "This girl's name is Dorothy, and she is about to go on an amazing adventure."

"With munchkins?" she asked.

He nodded.

MaryAnn hugged the book all the way to the car. As they drove home, she held it on her lap, gently tracing her fingers over the picture on the cover.

She was practically ready to get tucked in as soon as she finished her burger that evening. She ran into her room and slipped into her little baby doll nighty – the one with the tiny pink flowers that she loved.

"Come on, Daddy," she squealed as she grabbed the book from the table in the hall. "Let's go tuck me in."

Frank laughed. "You want to go to bed already? It's barely 6:00."

MaryAnn scowled. Holding the book up to him, she stomped her foot.

Ten minutes later, she lay in her bed with her rag doll under one arm as she curled up next to her father's side. He sat against her headboard, with his feet crossed on her bed and the book on his lap. He held it up so that she could see the pictures, and started to read.

"_Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies,"_ he read, _"with Uncle Henry, who was a farmer, and Aunt Em, who was the farmer's wife." . . ._

**September 19, 1957**

MaryAnn Summers stood in the middle of the stable staring into the stall. The smell of fresh hay and the sunbeams sneaking through the cracks in the wall made this her favorite place on the farm. Now, however, she guiltily looked back over her shoulder, checking the door and biting her lip.

Goliath snorted and kicked the door, drawing her attention back to him.

Ever since her parents and little brother had died in the car accident three years ago, MaryAnn had lived with her Aunt Martha and Uncle George and all her cousins. Andy and Ben, the two older boys, tended to tease her. They called her Princess Perfect. She knew that they were just kidding, but she knew that she never broke the rules. Whereas, they were constantly getting grounded for one thing or another. MaryAnn had _never_ been grounded.

And yet, here she stood, saddle in her hands, ready to break the biggest rule Uncle George had ever bestowed on his children. Her heart was pounding. She could do it, though; she knew she could.

Uncle George said that Goliath was dangerous and not to go near him. The horse was being boarded at the Summers' farm for a few weeks while his owners were traveling. But MaryAnn had snuck in this morning to feed him an apple. He was fine with her. He liked her, didn't he?

She was tired of the boys calling her names. If they saw her riding Goliath, then she just knew she could win their respect.

She took a step closer to the stall. Goliath backed up a step and shook his head, letting out a small whinny.

"It's okay, Goliath. I won't hurt you," she whispered. She set the saddle down and reached up to unlock the stall door. Taking another fearful look over her shoulder, she scolded herself for stalling. She picked up the lead rope and bridle and stepped in with the horse.

His eyes rolled back and he backed up into the corner of the stall. He kicked one foot out – not to make contact, warning her.

"Easy, boy. Don't you want to get out of this old stall for a while?" she asked. "We have to go _now, _though, while Uncle George and Aunt Martha are in town. I don't have a lot of time."

As she inched her way closer to him, he sidestepped. She put her arms out to the side to keep him from escaping the stall without his bridle on. Then slowly, she reached into her pocket to pull out a couple of lumps of sugar. He watched her every movement.

"Look what I brought you," she said with a smile. "See? All I want is one loop around the house. Just long enough for Andy and Ben to see."

Goliath saw the sugar in her hand. He lowered his head a little and stretched his neck to sniff her. She took a slow step towards him and easily slid the bridle up and on while he took the sugar lumps. Fastening the buckle quickly, she said, "There, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

She reached into her pocket and gave him one more lump of sugar. Then she led him out of the stall and hooked the lead rope so that she could saddle him. As she got the saddle up on him and tightened up, she was feeling even more confident. _Why, he's not giving me a hard time at all_, she thought. _Uncle George was being way too over-cautious._

She unhooked his lead rope and took the reins in her hand. Leading him over to the steps near the front of the stable, she heard Andy, Ben, Molly and Henry coming out the front door. They were laughing about something as they headed down the front steps.

_Just in time_, MaryAnn thought. _They're going to be so surprised_. She climbed the steps so that it was just a quick hop onto Goliath's back. When she sat back on the saddle, Goliath snorted and sidestepped a bit. She reached down and patted his neck. "Easy, Goliath," she coaxed. She looked over to the porch. The others had not seen her yet.

Smiling to herself, she gave him a tap with her heels to trot him out of the stable. As much as she wanted to see the expressions on their faces when they saw her on Goliath, instead, her eyes were drawn to the road. With dismay she realized that Uncle George and Aunt Martha were pulling into the driveway. They had finished their errands rather early.

Suddenly, everything seemed to happen at once. Andy saw her on the horse. His eyes were wide as they locked with hers, but she wasn't smiling anymore. She was hanging on for dear life as Goliath bolted down the driveway. Unfortunately, he headed straight toward the truck. MaryAnn looked forward and saw the expressions on their faces – her aunt was petrified and her uncle was . . . well, furious.

As Goliath approached the truck, Uncle George slammed on the breaks. So did Goliath – rearing up and kicking his forelegs at the truck. MaryAnn let out a scream as she felt herself falling.

* * *

MaryAnn tried to open her eyes. The light hurt and she squinted them back shut again. She was vaguely aware of someone kneeling next to her on the ground talking. She was far more aware of the jolting pain in her elbow.

She could hear Uncle George yelling. She tried again to open her eyes. Aunt Martha was kneeling next to her holding her head.

"George. GEORGE!" she called. "She's coming to."

George came over to MaryAnn and looked down at her. He had Goliath's reins in his hand. His face was a mixture of anger and relief.

"Anything broken?" he asked gruffly.

MaryAnn squeaked. "Maybe my elbow. It sure hurts."

He shook his head. "I'm going to put him back in the stall, then we'll get you to the hospital. Andy, see if you can get her in the truck."

As Andy helped her up and led her back to the truck, MaryAnn glanced over at him. He grinned at her.

"What in the world were you thinking?" he asked.

"I was sick of you and Ben calling me Princess Perfect," she answered, shame-faced.

He grimaced. "Sorry about that," he said, as he helped her into the seat.

"It's okay," she said. "It's true. No more rule-breaking for me." She held her arm against her as she sat back.

"You've got more guts than I gave you credit for," Andy said. Looking up at his father approaching the truck, he continued. "You're going to need them."

He backed away from the truck and gave MaryAnn a wave as the truck pulled away.

**January 2, 1964**

MaryAnn opened her eyes and stretched. Remembering where she was, she launched herself out of bed and ran to the window. Throwing open the curtains, she found herself staring at Diamond Head Crater.

"Andy, Andy, can you believe we're really here?" she squealed, dancing around the hotel room.

Her cousin, Andy, groaned and pulled the pillow over his head. "You didn't tell me that you were getting up with the sun. I do that at home. This is supposed to be a vacation," he mumbled.

"You're not on vacation," she retorted. "You're here to babysit me."

"Well, that's Cindy's fault. If she hadn't gotten appendicitis the other night, she'd be here with you instead of me." He threw his pillow at her as she pirouetted by his bed.

"I _did_ win a trip for two. I didn't want to come alone," she whined. "I just wish Uncle George had let Molly come with me, though."

"Yeah, well, she's only 16," Andy said as he stretched and sat up in the bed. "Dad wasn't going to trust the two of you all the way in Hawaii without _supervision_. So instead, you get me."

MaryAnn stuck her tongue out at him as she headed into the bathroom to shower.

Later that morning, after a hearty breakfast in the hotel dining room, MaryAnn and Andy headed off for the beach to explore.

Andy wouldn't admit it to his younger cousin, but he was secretly thrilled that Cindy Smith had gotten an ill-timed attack of appendicitis. He had never dreamed that he would be walking along Waikiki Beach watching kids surfing and admiring the lovely tanned girls soaking up the sun.

Turning to MaryAnn, he negotiated an agreement. "You don't get in my way with the ladies this week, and you can do all the shopping you want. Deal?"

MaryAnn grinned as she pointed out a particularly voluptuous girl putting on suntan oil. "There's one for you," she giggled.

He raised an appreciative eyebrow. "Yes, indeed."

* * *

After a long afternoon of strolling up and down the main strip in Waikiki and hitting every gift shop, MaryAnn and Andy stopped by a faded little ice cream shack. They ate their cones slowly as they meandered down the length of the beach back toward their hotel.

As the sun started to set, MaryAnn thought that nothing looked lovelier or more romantic. There was a dock in the distance with a few palm trees lining the length of it. She watched the silhouettes of the surfers carrying their boards down the dock with the colorful hues of the sunset behind them.

A small boat caught her eye. It was coming into the harbor on the other side of her hotel.

"Oh look, Andy. A little cruise boat. We should take a cruise tomorrow," she said.

"I don't know," he answered. "The thought of being out on that tiny little thing . . . Anyway, if men were meant to be on the ocean, we would have been born with fins. I'll keep my feet on dry land, thank you very much."

MaryAnn dumped her shopping bags into his arms and skipped ahead of him heading for the docks. Calling back over her shoulder, she said, "I'll meet you back in our room. I'm going to see how much a ticket will cost."

He shook his head. "Fine," he yelled. "But don't blame me when Poseidon strikes you down."

As MaryAnn approached the docks, that little boat was slipping into a berth. With the sun setting behind them, she could see their silhouettes on the boat. There were two couples sitting up front and a man wearing a captain's hat up at the wheel. She watched curiously as a thin, lanky figure hopped down onto the dock, with a line in his hand. He knelt down and tied the rope to the cleat.

He had his head down and was wearing a white hat; it could have been a sailor's cap – she wasn't sure. Up ahead, she saw a little booth with a sign for tickets. She walked by him and approached the booth. He had taken the line from the back end of the boat and was now tying that off.

An older woman was sitting inside the booth. "May I help you, Dear?" she asked with a grandmotherly smile.

"Yes," MaryAnn answered. "Are there any tickets available for that little boat?" she asked.

"The Minnow? Oh, let's see." The woman opened a planner and checked the dates. "They're off tomorrow. Hmmm, sold out for Saturday. I can give you a ticket for Sunday. If you want something for tomorrow, though, I can get you on the Albatross. It's a little bigger. That one carries about 25 passengers."

MaryAnn turned back toward the Minnow. The young man was holding his hand out to help one of the ladies off the boat. He was talking and smiling. MaryAnn's heart did a little flip when she caught sight of his dimples.

Then she looked up at the captain. He was a big, burly man. He reminded her of a nautical version of her Uncle George.

"No, I think I'd like a ticket for the Minnow. Sunday will be just fine," she said, turning back to the woman with a smile.

As she walked back down the dock with a ticket in her hand, she watched the young man wiping down the railings and cleaning the deck. He had rolled his sleeves up and was bopping his head to a tune on the radio.

_Yes, Sunday will be just fine_, she thought with a smile.

**May 19, 1966**

The mood of the castaways was somber this evening, as MaryAnn carefully sliced up a poi roll. She skewered a slice on a small, sharpened stick and held it over the fire to toast lightly. Turning it slowly, being careful not to burn it, she glanced over at Mr. Howell.

"She's getting stronger," she said. "I'm sure we can get her to eat a little tonight."

He nodded as he stared into the fire. After a minute, he got up and walked into his hut.

MaryAnn watched him sadly. Looking over at Professor, she asked, "She will get better, won't she?"

Professor nodded. "I think so. Her fever broke this afternoon. She just needs to eat and build her strength up. She hasn't had much of an appetite, though."

MaryAnn took the toasted roll and put it on a plate with a small helping of scrambled turtle egg and some cut up fruit. "Well, I have a new idea tonight. I'm sure it will work."

The other castaways watched her as she walked toward her own hut, carrying the plate of food. She came out a moment later with something else in her hand and headed to the Howell's hut.

Mrs. Howell had fallen ill a week ago. It hit hard and fast. After days of a raging fever, she was left in a pale, weakened state. The others had all felt quite helpless as they tried to keep her as comfortable as possible.

MaryAnn entered the hut to see Thurston Howell, III sitting on the edge of the bed holding his wife's hand. He reached up with a cloth and wiped her brow lovingly.

MaryAnn handed him the plate. "Here," she said. "Try to feed her. I'm going to try something new." She went to a bucket of fresh water and poured some into a cup. She sat on the other side of the bed and opened the book that had been in her hand.

"Hi, Mrs. Howell," she whispered. "I thought I'd read to you for a little while as Mr. Howell feeds you, all right?"

Mrs. Howell looked over at her. She nodded a little and tried to smile.

MaryAnn smiled back and patted the older woman's hand. Then she held up the book in her hand.

"This is called The Magic of Oz," she explained. "It's one of the Oz books from L. Frank Baum. My father used to read these books to me."

Mrs. Howell smiled as she absent-mindedly opened her mouth for a bite of eggs that Mr. Howell held up to her.

MaryAnn hugged the book for a moment and got tears in her eyes. "This is the last one we read together before he died," she said. "There was another one written after this . . . but I could never bring myself to read it without my Dad."

It took her a few moments before she opened the book. Mrs. Howell watched as MaryAnn sat with the book on her lap, softly tracing her finger over the picture on the cover.

Finally, though, MaryAnn opened the book and began to read. Mr. Howell was diligent and sneaky . . . making sure that his Lovey was quite captivated by the story . . . then he slowly raised the fork, feeding her eggs and an occasional bite of fruit. He broke a piece of toast off and offered it to her.

MaryAnn read on and by the time she reached the end of the second chapter, Mrs. Howell's plate was empty. She looked over and smiled at Mr. Howell.

Mrs. Howell picked up her cup with a shaky hand and took a sip of water. He took the cup from her and held her hand for a moment.

MaryAnn closed the book and stood up. "I'll leave you two alone for a bit," she said. "Mrs. Howell, you get some rest tonight. I'm guessing you'll feel even a little better in the morning. If you'd like, I'll read some more to you at breakfast."

Mrs. Howell smiled and nodded. "That would be lovely, Dear. Thank you," she said in a soft, raspy voice.

MaryAnn walked out of the hut. She looked back over her shoulder to see Mr. Howell cover his wife up and kiss her forehead.

She smiled to herself as she hugged the book to her chest and walked slowly back to her own hut.


	6. Don't Skip Fridays

**FRIDAYS  
**

**July 14, 1933**

Jonas Grumby and his father, Al, sat on a dusty bus rumbling down Route 94. It was gearing up to be a hot day in southern California, and the two of them were off to the San Diego Zoo. Jonas was a bit excited at spending the day at the zoo, just the two of them; but he was also rather confused as to why his father would take an unexpected day off to spend it with him.

He sat staring out the streaked window, contemplating the reasons for this spontaneous road trip, when his father made him jump by starting to speak. Al Grumby was a man of few words, but when he decided to talk, you'd be wise to listen.

"You know," Al said. "I hear that the gorilla exhibit at this zoo is pretty impressive. Did you know that I love gorillas?"

Jonas looked up at his father. While at 12 years old, Jonas was a very tall boy, he still had to look up at his father. It would be a few more years before they would be the same height. He shook his head. It was odd to be talking to his father about things that he liked. He couldn't remember ever having a conversation like this one before.

The bus pulled up to the bus stop across the street from the zoo entrance. They got off and walked over to get their tickets.

They looked at the zoo map and found the gorilla habitat. "There it is," said Al. "Let's go there first. It's right up around that corner." Jonas was surprised to see an excited twinkle in his father's eyes.

As they walked, Al continued to talk. "Yeah, way back before your mom and I got married, I traveled to Africa with my Uncle Chet. We went on an expedition, and I saw real gorillas –a whole family of them." His eyes got a faraway look in them as he smiled at the memory. "Ever since then, I've been anxious to see them again. One of the guys in my office said that this zoo had a new baby. They also have some twins that were born a couple of years ago."

They approached the gorilla exhibit. There were a few scattered people there, hoping to see the new baby, but Jonas and his father were able to walk right up to the fence and look in.

"See there," Al said. "That's the silverback. He's the father. He looks out for the _whole_ family."

Jonas took a good look at the silverback. He sat in the shade of a large tree, lazily turning his head back and forth as he watched the crowd. It was rather intimidating the way the gorilla looked out at the people, as if daring them to step one foot closer. Occasionally, he would sweep his eyes over the exhibit to check on his family's whereabouts.

Jonas scanned the exhibit with anticipation. Wherever the young mother and infant were, he hasn't seen them yet.

Off to the right, playing on some stumps were two smaller gorillas. They were wrestling and tugging back and forth with a rope. It made Jonas laugh to watch them. Then, from out of a cave in the back, came a female gorilla holding the brand new baby. Immediately, the silverback sat straight up, very alert, and watched closely.

"Did you see that?" Al asked. "Did you see the way he sprang right up when the baby came out?"

Jonas nodded, absolutely captivated.

The two young gorillas ran over to the female and baby. One tackled the other, while the mother shielded the baby.

The silverback got up and walked over to them. He reached out a hand and pinned down the aggressor.

"He's protecting her and the baby," said Al. "He's not hurting the young ones, he's just letting them know that they're being too rambunctious." He looked down at Jonas. "When you are the big guy, the strong one, others will look to you for leadership. You have that quality in you, Jonas. Watch the silverback. Learn to be like him."

Jonas watched carefully. "He's so gentle, Dad. He looks scary, but with them, he's being really gentle. If I stepped in there, though, he'd probably rip me apart."

Al nodded. "Over the next few years, Jonas, you will be learning to be a man." He looked back at the silverback. "People will look to you. You're going to be a big guy, with a deep voice . . . you're a leader. Don't be afraid to be tough when you need to be . . . or gentle when you need to be." Right as he said that, the baby gorilla crawled over onto the silverback's lap. The large gorilla put his hand gently on the baby's back and held him.

Jonas smiled. "I understand, Dad." Al Grumby put his arm around his son's shoulders and they walked on to the next exhibit.

**April 16, 1948**

Jonas Grumby sat at the end of the bar. He had gotten into port this afternoon and was given a few hours' leave by his commanding officer. After being at sea for four months, he was looking forward to three things: a thick, juicy steak, a pitcher of cold beer, and a few hours with a good-looking woman.

He caught the eye of a waitress and asked her to bring out the biggest, rarest steak in the joint and added a flirtatious wink, for good measure. Then he flagged down the bartender and put in an order for a beer. Only one thing left to check off his to-do list. He spun around on his bar stool and leaned back with his elbows on the bar. Scanning the room, he looked for a likely prospect.

_There, _he thought. _Back table, right in the corner. Perfect. _There were three ladies out for an evening of fun and flirting.

He took his beer from the bartender and walked nonchalantly back to the ladies' table.

"Well, hello there, pretty ladies," he said in his most charming voice. "Would you mind a little company?"

The auburn-haired beauty on the far side scooted over on her bench. "Hellooo, Sailor," she said, already feeling a bit tipsy. "You just sit right down here with me." She patted the seat next to her and took a long sip of her drink.

Jonas sat down with a huge smile. Then he smiled even more when the waitress brought over his steak.

"Oooh," squealed the auburn-haired woman. "I just love a man with a big appetite," she said, putting her hand on his arm. "I'm Lacie, and these are my friends, Dalia and Sadie."

"Hello, ladies," he said. "I'm Jonas. Jonas Grumby." He dug his knive into the steak and cut off a big chunk. He placed it in his mouth and followed with a swig of beer.

After an hour or so of flirting and drinking and eating, Jonas was feeling pretty confident about his chances with Lacie. He found her attractive on all counts. He stood up and was about to suggest that they head off for a more private destination, when he heard a commotion behind him.

Turning around, he grimaced. Bryce Murdock and Lyle Williams, two shipmates from his crew had just entered the bar. They had clearly already been drinking and were being quite obnoxious.

"Murdock, Williams," he hollered. "Come on, boys. Let's get you back to the base." He shot an apologetic look to the ladies, as he approached his shipmates. Then all hell broke loose.

Murdock spun around and yelled across the bar, "Grumby!" He smiled and waved, accidentally hitting the man sitting behind him, sending his beer flying across the table. That man stood up quickly, took a swing at Murdock, who ducked, causing Williams to get hit instead. Chaos ensued. A ten-man fistfight raged. Jonas tried to wade through the crowd to get to his shipmates. After dodging fists and flying chairs, he finally reached Williams. Grabbing his arm, he pulled him closer to the door.

Turning, he scanned the crowd for Murdock. He spotted him three tables away with a civilian in a headlock. The man's friend was grasping Murdock's arms trying to pull him off.

"Stay Here!" Jonas ordered Williams. He trudged through the crowd sending men flying in all directions. He grabbed Murdock by the collar and pulled him back to the door.

As he shoved the two seamen out the door, he looked back toward Lacie and her friends hiding behind their table in the back corner. He smiled and waved, then turned back to the door to find himself face to face with half the town's police force.

* * *

An hour later, a police officer came out back to the cells. Jonas sat on a bench next to Murdock, who had an ice pack on his eye. Williams was lying on another cot, snoring loudly.

"Jonas Grumby," the officer called out. As he unlocked the door, he said, "Your bail has been paid. You're free to go."

Jonas walked across the cell. "What about my two shipmates?" he asked, pointing to his friends.

"Well, the Chief talked to your Captain," the officer explained. "He wanted them to sleep it off for the night. He'll send a car around in the morning for them," he said.

As Jonas followed the officer to the front office, he looked back over his shoulder at Murdock and Williams. He shrugged.

He walked through the police station, looking around. Nobody was paying much attention to him. He walked out the front door . . . and there was Lacie, leaning against a baby blue car, her arms folded across her ample chest and a sexy grin on her face.

"Lucky for you, my cousin is the deputy," she said. "Need a place to stay for the night?"

Jonas practically skipped down the steps. "Little Darling, you are a welcome sight," he said. She opened the passenger door for him, and he got in.

As she started driving down the road, Jonas put his arm over the back of her seat. Looking at her with a grin and a raised eyebrow, he asked, "Are you hungry?"

**October 26, 1962**

Captain Jonas Grumby reached up under his cap and scratched his head. He grimaced at the sorry group of sailors below him on the deck. One young sailor, in particular, caught his eye.

Since they had come on board, this unfortunate soul had tripped over a pile of rope, got himself caught in the line on the flagpole, slammed his head into the cannon on deck, and knocked over the entire squad while they stood at attention. As the men picked themselves up and tried to get organized again, they shoved him stumbling and bumbling to the end of the line. The last man in line grabbed him by the collar and swung him around to the back row.

Captain Grumby sighed and shook his head. "ATTENTION," he bellowed as he came down the steps. All men, but one, snapped to attention, assuming a saluting position. The skinny sailor at the end of the back row was down on one knee, tying his shoe.

Captain Grumby strolled down the line and stood in front of him. "Ahem," he cleared his throat.

The sailor slowly looked up, squinting into the sun. "Oh, sorry, Sir, Captain, Sir," he stuttered, as he stood up quickly and saluted. Unfortunately, his elbow caught his neighbor in the nose, causing the victim to double over, howling and holding his bloodied nose.

Captain Grumby glanced at his second-in-command, Lt. Wilford, with a horrified look. "What am I going to do with this one?" he muttered.

Lt. Wilford shrugged and quipped, "Hide him in the galley?"

Shaking his head, he dismissed the men. "Lt. Wilford here, will show you to your bunks and where you can store your gear." Grabbing the arm of the clumsy sailor, he said, "You – come with me."

Grimacing and blushing, the young man followed him. They walked over to the port side. Leaning his elbows on the railing, Captain Grumby looked off into the distance. Then turning to the young man standing there awkwardly, he asked, "What's your name, Sailor?"

"Gilligan, Sir. William Gilligan," he squeaked, sure that he was about to get severely reprimanded. His face was crumpled into a spectacular pout.

Captain Grumby sighed. He patted the sailor on the shoulder. "Don't try so hard. Relax. I know you're nervous, but it's going to be all right."

The young man hung his head. "I'm sorry, Sir. I'll try to do better."

"Sure, sure you will. Head down below, hang a right and keep going. You'll see your shipmates and Lt. Wilford will assign you a bunk."

Seaman Gilligan stood at attention, saluting. Captain Grumby saluted back and sent him on his way.

* * *

A few hours later, the squad was on deck unloading a shipment of equipment. Captain Grumby was down at the far end of the deck checking off a list of items. He looked up to the other end of the deck and saw that there was a small group of men unloading the depth charges. He turned back to Lt. Wilford and continued checking off his list.

Captain Grumby thought he heard someone calling. The wind was whipping and nearly blew his hat off. _What's that rumbling, _he thought, as he straightened his hat. He turned around and his eyes bugged out. Like a deer in the headlights, he froze as a runaway depth charge rumbled toward him. He was vaguely aware that a white blur was racing past the depth charge and was on course to hit him first.

Before he knew it, he found himself in a painful pile of arms and legs. Seaman Gilligan had launched himself over the depth charge, tackling the Captain and landing on top of him.

Lt. Wilford and Seaman Brady had reached them by this time. They lifted an unconscious Gilligan off of Captain Grumby. The way his arm flopped around when they lifted him, it was clearly broken. Captain Grumby was pretty certain that he had some cracked ribs. It would have been a lot worse had that depth charge barreled into him.

* * *

Later that evening, Captain Grumby occupied a cot in the infirmary, and Seaman Gilligan was in the cot next to him.

Seaman Gilligan looked over at his captain with remorse. "I'm sorry I cracked your ribs, Skipper," he said. "I didn't mean to."

"Skipper?" he asked.

"Um, sorry. Captain Grumby," Seaman Gilligan said. "It just came out."

Captain Grumby looked at him with a gentle smile. "No. No, it's okay. You can call me that." He should his head slowly. "It would have been a whole lot worse if that depth charge had hit me. That could have killed me," he said. "Little Buddy, you saved my life."

**May 20, 1964**

Skipper sat on a fallen tree at the edge of the jungle. His seat overlooked the lagoon down below, and as he sat repairing one of the little stools for the dining table, he watched Gilligan fishing down at the water's edge. He had a new whittled leg in his hand and had been sanding the bottom to set flat. At the moment, however, he sat staring down at his first mate with a look of affection on his face.

Down below him, Gilligan had cast his line over toward the waterfall and was slowly reeling it in. As Skipper sat watching him, lost in his thoughts, he didn't immediately see that Mr. Howell had just walked down the path towards him and was sitting on the other end of the fallen tree.

Mr. Howell sat, too, and looked down at the first mate, watching him fondly. "Captain," he said, turning to Skipper. "How is it that he didn't want to be a Howell? The lad confounds me." He frowned and shook his head slowly.

After Gilligan had recently saved the life of Mrs. Howell by pulling her out of the way of a falling boulder, the Howells wanted to repay him by formally adopting him. Gilligan, however, preferred his simple existence and his white cap on his head.

"I can't blame you for wanting to adopt him, Howell," Skipper said. "I never had a son, either. I wouldn't have minded that little guy calling me Dad." He smiled and shook his head.

Howell thought about the previous week and all that had happened. "You really missed him while he was at our hut, didn't you?"

Skipper looked over at Mr. Howell. He scrutinized him, trying to figure out if there was angle to this conversation. Thurston Howell, III was not usually known for being compassionate about other people's feelings. Then he decided that he didn't care if there was an angle. He felt the need to talk.

"Throughout most of my adult life, I enjoyed playing the game. I didn't think I ever wanted to be married. It's not that I didn't want kids. I didn't really think about it." He shrugged. "I just enjoyed meeting different women and hadn't met one that made me want to settle down."

He looked down at the wooden leg in his hand and started sanding again, pausing occasionally, to look down at Gilligan.

"But then, he came along. He attached himself to me. I don't know, maybe he missed his own father, being so far from home." Skipper chuckled. "All I know is that kid could cause more chaos than a troop of monkeys. He drives me crazy; he talks nonstop; and he can't walk across a room without breaking three things. And yet, when he's not there . . ."

Mr. Howell nodded. "I know what you mean. He was only _with us_ for a few days. And now . . . the hut seems so quiet . . . Thank God."

Both men laughed. Skipper was reluctant to admit that he had anything at all in common with Howell, but he couldn't deny that both of them were very fond of William Gilligan.

They both stopped laughing, though and looked down when they heard Gilligan whooping and hollering on the beach.

He looked up the hill at them and yelled, "Hey, Skipper! Mr. Howell! HELP!" He had planted his feet in the sand and was grasping his bowed fishing pole. Out in the water, Skipper saw a good-sized sailfish leap out of the water, thrashing.

"Ooomph," he uttered. Throwing the wooden leg, he scrambled up from his perch and grabbed Mr. Howell's arm, helping him up. "Come on, Howell. Let's help him land that baby! There's going to be some good eating tonight."

Feeling like a little kid, Skipper ran down the hill and met his little buddy on the beach. When he reached Gilligan, he threw his arms around Gilligan's waist and pulled him backwards while Gilligan tried to reel the fish in.

* * *

A half-hour later, the three men, sweaty and sandy and laughing . . . well, Skipper and Gilligan were sweaty and sandy . . . came walking into the clearing carrying a large specimen of sailfish. They had an air of excitement about them.

As Skipper followed Gilligan and his fish to the worktable, he rubbed his hands together gleefully; his mouth was already watering. "Come on, let's get her cleaned up and filleted," he said. Then Skipper put his arm around Gilligan's shoulders and said, "You're one helluva fisherman! I'm proud of you, Little Buddy,""


	7. Sweet Saturdays With Gilligan

**July 15, 1950**

Eight-year old William Gilligan climbed out of bed, wearing his lone ranger pajamas. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and one sock had come off.

"Hey, Skinny, you up yet?" he asked as he ran to the window and looked out. The sky was dark gray, and it was pouring rain. Will grimaced. He heard a groan behind him and looked at the lumpy sleeping bag on his bedroom floor. Since his father's surgery, Seamus "Skinny" Mulligan had been spending a lot of time at the Gilligan's house. And this morning, the Gilligan family plus one would be driving to the coast to board the Emerald of the Sea. Ellen Gilligan had won tickets for a one-week cruise on the ocean liner.

Leaping across the room, he landed on the bag, forcing an "oomph" from his best friend inside.

Will laughed. "Come on, get up. Looney Tunes is coming on soon. Do you want pancakes? My mom makes the BEST pancakes."

Skinny stuck his head out of the sleeping bag. His red curls were tangled and his face was a mass of freckles. Despite his nickname, he had about 10 pounds over Will. He squirmed out from under Will and wriggled out of his sleeping bag. He grabbed his pillow from behind him and gave Will a good whack.

The boys spent the next ten minutes in a ferocious pillow fight. Will giggled as he got up on his bed and took a flying leap onto Skinny again. Skinny tried to dodge him, but wasn't quite quick enough. He took an elbow to the chin and fell over backwards, causing both boys to break up laughing.

By the time Ellen Gilligan stuck her head in the door to check on the boys, Skinny had him in a headlock and Will had a handful of curls.

Without blinking an eye, she said, "Come on, you two. What's it going to be for breakfast?"

"PANCAKES," they both yelled. Grabbing their pillows and the blankets from Will's bed, they ran by Mrs. Gilligan and thundered down the stairs to the living room. Will's older brother, Danny, had claimed the recliner already, which was the most coveted seat in the house, so the boys threw their blankets and pillows down on the floor in front of the television set and jumped onto the pile. Bridget had opted to eat in the kitchen, away from the "boyish rabble" in the living room.

They were just in time for the first Looney Tunes cartoon. It was one of Will's favorites, with Bugs Bunny and a mother gorilla who catches Bugs and tries to "adopt" him. Shortly after that, Mrs. Gilligan came in with pancakes. The boys set up the tin TV trays at the sofa, and sat down to breakfast.

"Thanks, Mom. You're the best," Will said with a sweet grin. As Ellen reached down to kiss her young son on the forehead, Danny and Skinny leaned over their seats and pretended to be sick.

As the boys dug into their pancakes and enjoyed their cartoons, Patrick Gilligan rushed into the room, clapping his hands. "Come on, eat up. We've got to be on the road in a half-hour. Will, you and Seamus aren't even dressed yet."

"Sorry, Dad. We'll hurry," Will promised.

* * *

Six hours later, after a long day of rain, back-seat squabbles, spilled slushies and six failed attempts at Quaker's Meeting, the loaded station wagon pulled into a parking spot in the Philadelphia Port. Down at the far end of the docks was their destination: The Emerald of the Sea.

Fortunately, within the past half-hour, the rain had come to a stop. The sun was actually peaking through the clouds a little as the Gilligans laid eyes on the beautiful ocean liner.

Patrick secured a wheeled cart, and they loaded their luggage on it. Then the kids all ran for the railing to get their first look at the Atlantic Ocean.

William Gilligan stepped up onto the bottom rail. He looked at the ocean in awe. Lifting his face, he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. A large tugboat chugged by, causing a wake that splashed the kids.

Looking up at his father with bright, excited eyes, he asked, "Dad, when I grow up, can I join the Navy? Then I'll get to live on the ocean all the time."

"Will, when you grow up, you can be anything you want to be," he answered with a grin, patting his son on the shoulder.

"WOOHOO!" shouted Will as he and Skinny ran for the gangplank. "I'm gonna be a Sailor!"

**April 19, 1958**

Will Gilligan paced across his living room and wringed his hands. Pulling back the curtain, he looked out nervously, then glanced at the clock. He looked down at his belt buckle and straightened it. He re-tucked his deep blue polo shirt into his best jeans. Then he started pacing again.

Ellen Gilligan walked into the living room and chuckled. Folding down the back of his collar, she said, "William, calm down. You'll do fine."

He shook his head and waved her away. "But what if I crash? What if I hit someone? I could hit a little old lady. What about Mrs. Murdock. I could _run over_ Mrs. Murdock and then where would Fluffy be?"

Ellen laughed and sat on the edge of the couch as he resumed his pacing and rambled on. "Or even worse! I could HIT FLUFFY! Oh no. No, Mom. I can't do it." He shook his head vigorously. "I can't go out there and hit Fluffy. Mrs. Murdock would be so sad. She'd never forgive me.

"Will," she said.

"Every time I'd see her, I'd have to look in her eyes and see the hate."

"Will," she repeated.

"And then her grandkids, Jessie and Max. They play with Fluffy all the time. They'd hate me, too."

"William," she said, laughing.

"What?" he asked with a crumpled face, as he stopped pacing in front of her, but stood, still wringing his hands.

"Mr. Kelly is here. Don't keep him waiting, honey," she said. Putting her hand on his shoulder and guiding him to the front door, she continued. "Go on, now. You'll be fine. You won't hit Fluffy," she said, and she pushed him gently down the front steps and toward the large red car sitting in his driveway.

An older man got out of the driver's seat. "Good morning, William. Are you ready?" he asked as he tossed the car keys to the frightened teen.

With wide eyes, Will watched the keys fly through the air toward him. Coming to a stop halfway across the lawn, he stood still as the keys hit him in the chest. He stood there and looked down at the keys that had landed right in front of his left foot. He was pale and shaking as he squatted down to pick up the keys. Halfway up, he dropped them again.

After the third try, he finally stood up with the keys in his hand. It seemed to take eons as he walked the rest of the yard and opened the car door. By this time, Mr. Kelly was already seated in the passenger side with a clipboard on his lap.

Will sat in the driver's seat and closed the door. He looked at his mother, still standing on the front steps. He looked at Mr. Kelly. He realized that there was no way he was going to get out of this.

He leaned over and tried to put the key in the ignition. He dropped the keys. Looking at Mr. Kelly with an apologetic grin, he picked them up. He tried again, this time succeeding. He turned the key and released it too quickly, causing the engine to screech in protest.

Mr. Kelly winced. "Relax, William," he said. "You'll do just fine. Now try again and hold the key until the engine catches. Give the gas pedal a tap. No – no – that's the brakes. The other one. There you go."

With the engine started, Will sat gasping for breath. He tried to slow his breathing down and closed his mouth. His nose immediately started to whistle.

Mr. Kelly sighed. After a moment, he said, "Okay, now take the gear selector and put it in Reverse. We are going to back slowly to the end of the driveway."

Will stepped on the gas and pressed down hard, racing the engine.

"NO! No – no. Stop. First, press your foot on the brake and then put it in Reverse. Take the gear selector"

Will put his hand on the lever.

"Okay, good. Now slide it over and down to the "R". Then let it click into place."

Will positioned the lever and clicked it into Drive.

"No. That's Drive. That will make you go forward. Put it near the R for reverse. That will make you go backwards."

Will wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. Then he tried again and succeeded in getting the car in reverse. With his foot still on the brake, he took a careful look up the sidewalk and then turned and looked the other way.

"Oh no," he muttered with dismay. His neighbor, Mrs. Murdock, was walking up the sidewalk with her little Westie, Fluffy, on a leash. In a panic, he shifted the car back up into Park.

"What are you doing?" Mr. Kelly asked.

"I don't want to hit the dog," he said.

Mr. Kelly looked around. "She's _on the other side of the street_. You're fine."

Will watched and waited until Mrs. Murdock had gone well past the driveway. Then looking in his mirror and taking good looks over both shoulders, he once again pressed down hard on the gas. The engine raced.

"You're back in Park," Mr. Kelly noted. "Put it in Reverse."

Will tried to slide the lever into Reverse. The car jerked viciously and stalled. Mr. Kelly sighed again.

"Start it again," he said. "Okay, now foot on brake – good. Slide it into reverse. Riiight. Now slowly – SLOWLY – put your foot on the gas and press down lightly."

Will pressed down on the gas hard, causing the car to fly down the driveway. Just as they reached the sidewalk, Mr. Kelly slammed on his emergency brake. With his hands on the dashboard, knuckles white, fingers digging in, he whispered.

"Foot on brake. Put it back in drive and just a touch – just a little feather touch on the gas – bring it back up a little bit."

Will did as he instructed. With just a little touch of the gas, Will brought the car back up the driveway. He slid his foot over and stomped on the brake and brought it to a hard stop. As he slid the gear selector into Park, with a huge, proud grin, he said, "I did it."

Mr. Kelly sighed. He got out of the car and walked around to the driver's side. "Good. Very good, William. I think that's enough for today."

Will got out of the driver's seat and bounded across the front yard. "Did you see that, Mom?" he asked. "I did it! I drove the car!"

**August 13, 1960**

William Gilligan sat up straight and rubbed his eyes. He could feel that the bus was rumbling to a stop. He had been on the road for close to 15 hours now, and was anxious to get up and stretch. He stood up and looked around the bus. There were fourteen other young men in various positions, most of them sleeping. Just one other guy was awake. He looked over at Will and gave him a nod.

Will turned and looked out the window. They were parked in front of a huge brick building and four men in uniforms were coming down the steps. In a panic, Will looked around. "Hey guys, guys, wake up. They're coming."

The other fourteen jumped up and rubbed their eyes, stretched their backs and watched the uniformed men approaching the bus.

They entered the bus doors and greeted the small group of men. The first man spoke. "Good morning, Seamen Recruits. Welcome to the United States Navy. I am Chief Petty Officer Jeffries, and these are your guides for today." Holding up a clipboard, he called out, "Anderson, Ben; Dobbs, MacKinley; Farwell, Collin; Gilligan, William; and Iker, Jason. This is Petty Officer Walker. You are to go with him."

Will stepped out of his row with the other men called, and followed Petty Officer Walker off the bus. He led them down the sidewalk away from the bus then turned and addressed them. "Gentlemen, it is now O-Five-Hundred. We have a lot to do this morning, so you're going to need to hustle."

As he started to walk up the main steps and lead them into the building, he continued talking. "First thing we are going to do is visit the barber shop. You're all going to get nice, pretty haircuts," he said with a grin. He led them down a hall.

Will's eyes were wide as he tried to take everything in. He had to practically run to keep up with his group, but there was so much to see. Naval murals on the walls, flags hanging everywhere, a glass case with plaques and trophies . . . he couldn't take it all in. He followed them down another hall and into a room with three barber chairs.

"Anderson, Dobbs and Farwell, take a seat." Three of the guys sat down. Will looked at the other guy still standing. It was the one he remembered from the bus who nodded at him. Will tried to smile at him, but was fighting the most nervous stomach he had ever encountered.

Walker left the room for a few minutes, so the new recruits relaxed a little and were able to chat. Anderson looked over at Will and said, "Geez, guys, check out those ears. They're huge." The others laughed, and Will's face flushed. Anderson looked at his barber and said, "Try not to let those babies get in the way of that shaver."

Will had always been teased about his big ears, so there wasn't much that he hadn't heard before. He decided there was nothing to do but laugh with them. As he sat in the chair for his turn, he looked at the other guys and casually commented, "Yeah, I do have big ears . . . and a big nose, too. In fact, all the stuff that sticks out of me tends to be real big." The other guys broke up laughing. "Really," he continued. "Look at my hands. They're huge compared to the rest of me."

Dobbs and Farwell were hanging onto each other, they were laughing so hard. Even the barbers were laughing. Jason Iker, now in the seat next to Will had tears in his eyes.

Anderson finally caught his breath and gasped out, "We're just going to have to call you Big G. You're the first one with a nickname, Big G. Congratulations."

Will shrugged. He looked up at his barber, who was having a hard time shaving straight. "Haven't any of you seen ears this big before? It's not _that_ funny."

By the time they were all done getting their hair cut, Walker had come back. "All right, Gentlemen. We are moving on to the Ditty Bag Issue. In here, you will receive your uniforms and everything else that you will need during your stay here. You will move through this line, taking these items. You will put on your new clothes and then take one of those boxes over there and pack up the belongings that you have with you. Those will be mailed home to your families. Any questions? Let's go."

Will moved through the line with the others. He took soap, shampoo, all the personal items he would need and placed them in a bin. Moving on to the clothing, he worked with a young enlisted man who helped him get the right sizes - although, he did have a hard time with some of the pants. The smallest waist they had was still a couple of inches too big. He was grateful for a belt.

When he finally got dressed and had all of his items in his ditty bag, he took his old things and placed them in one of the boxes on the table. He felt a twinge in his stomach as he put his canvas sneakers into the bottom of the box. Folding his jeans in, he choked up. He made a strong resolve to not cry in front of these guys. He knew it would be several months before he would see his parents again, and be able to wear civilian clothes.

After he had his box all packed, and scratched out the address on the label, he took it over to the finished pile. Petty Officer Walker looked at him and asked in a soft voice, "Want to go call your family? I can give you three minutes."

Will nodded.

Walker took him across a hallway into a room with multiple phones set up. Will approached one of the phones and dialed home.

"Hello," his mother answered.

He couldn't help it. He teared up. Even though he had just seen her last night, and they had thrown a huge good-bye party for him, he felt like it had been weeks since he had left. It seemed like so long ago. He took a deep breath and said in his most cheerful voice, "Hey, Mom. It's me. I just wanted to tell you and Dad that I got here okay. I met some of the guys, and guess what? I'm the first one with a nickname. They call me "Big G". Even though I'm the smallest guy here . . . I think it's 'cause of my ears."

**January 22, 1966**

Gilligan was down by the beach collecting driftwood and blown branches and loading them into the bamboo wheelbarrow that was built for gathering. It had been a few days since he and MaryAnn had spent an entire night out in the jungle, and he had been struggling with the seriousness of their relationship.

His brain was racing with possibilities as he rolled the wheelbarrow along and picked up wood. He didn't even notice when he rolled right by Skipper, who was out scouting for new food sources.

"Gilligan. Hey, Gilligan!" he shouted.

"Huh?" he muttered, looking around. "Oh, hi Skipper. Whatcha doing?" he asked.

"Do you have your pocket knife?" Skipper asked. "I want to dig a little into this root and see if it's edible. What do you think?" he asked as he held a little piece of root out. "Doesn't this look similar to the taro root?"

"Yeah, I guess," Gilligan said, shrugging. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his knife. A small, whittled piece of wood fell out onto the ground. Gilligan bent down and picked it up quickly, putting it back in his pocket.

Skipper saw it happen, but didn't say anything as he dug a little piece of root out. He held it up and took a nibble. "I think we should test this out and see what MaryAnn can do with it," he said. He noticed the shift in Gilligan's eyes when he mentioned MaryAnn.

"Here," he said. "Let's put a few chunks in the wheelbarrow."

"Sure, Skipper," Gilligan answered, absentmindedly.

After they were done, Gilligan took the handles and was about to continue on his way back to the clearing.

"Little Buddy," Skipper called. "Hang on a second. Come sit down."

Gilligan stopped and looked back at him. Slowly, he set the wheelbarrow back down and sat down next to Skipper, leaning against a tree trunk. "What's up, Skipper?" he asked.

Skipper blustered a bit before he continued. "Look, a lot has happened with you over the past few weeks, and I just thought that maybe you needed to talk."

Gilligan almost grinned a little. He knew that since that morning when he and MaryAnn had come strolling into the clearing, claiming to have gotten up to watch the sunrise, Skipper had been dying to know details. He had spent a couple of days avoiding his big buddy, but he knew that sooner or later, they'd have to have a talk. It might as well be now.

"I guess I do need to talk," he said. "I'm just not sure where to start . . . or what I even would say." He reached up and scratched his head, shifting his hat.

"Well," Skipper said, trying not to look too eager. "You could start with what happened the other night. You two were out all night. The jungle is a dangerous place at night, you know."

"I know that, Skipper. We started out just going to watch the sunset on the western shore. We were talking . . . you know, about home and stuff. And then . . . well . . . ummm . . ." He grimaced. "Girls – they like to kiss, you know."

Skipper nodded and said, "Yes, I do know."

"You don't have to worry about MaryAnn getting hurt, you know. I know how to keep her safe in the jungle," he blurted out, trying to change the direction of the conversation.

Skipper could see that Gilligan was definitely keeping something serious from him. "Gilligan . . . Little Buddy," he said gently. "I know that you two are in love. That's as plain as the nose on your face."

Gilligan reached up to feel his nose.

"I understand what you're going through. Being so cut-off from civilization and our families, well, we've got to live our own lives . . . here and now . . ." He took off his hat and fiddled with it, looking at the insignia on the front. "You're a man, now. You're all grown up and . . . well . . ."

As he was stammering his way through this conversation, Gilligan slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a little folded piece of cloth. Setting it down between them, he slowly unfolded it. Skipper stopped stammering and looked down. Sitting on the cloth were the little whittled piece of wood and what looked like three reddish wooden rings in the process of being sanded down, along with a little piece of rough coral and some scraps of sandpaper.

Gilligan picked up one of the rings. "It's koa," he said. "I started whittling them down Thursday morning. I'm making the big one for me, and the other two are an engagement ring and a wedding ring." He turned the ring this way and that, looking at the grains and running his finger along them. "Do you think she'll like them?"

Skipper picked up one of the other rings, his jaw hanging down. "Little Buddy," he whispered. "These are going to be gorgeous." He looked at Gilligan and smiled. "As for whether or not she'll like them, I don't think you have anything to worry about." Picking up the little whittled piece of wood, he asked, "What's this for?"

Gilligan grinned. "That fits into the ring she wears now. It was tricky getting the size just right. I had to sneak her ring away Thursday morning. Remember when she was looking for it after she did the dishes? I wanted to make the rings the right size."

Skipper set the pieces back down and chuckled.

Gilligan smiled and picked up the two smaller ones. "See how they aren't straight lines? They curve a little. They fit into each other, almost like puzzle pieces. One for an engagement ring and one for a wedding ring." Then he got very serious.

"Skipper?" he asked nervously. "Right now, I'm all she's got. You're too old for her and Professor sort of likes Ginger. What happens . . ." he gulped. "What happens if we get rescued and go back home. Will she still want to be with me? Marry me?"

"Little Buddy," Skipper said, patting his friend on the shoulder. "Don't sell yourself short. You've got a heart of gold, and you work so hard to make everyone's day a little brighter. She knows that. _That's_ why she loves you, not because you're the only guy here for her. Why – you're every bit as sweet as her."

"No," Gilligan said with a smile. "She's twice as sweet as me."


End file.
